


White Dunes

by Rosewater_53



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25844863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosewater_53/pseuds/Rosewater_53
Summary: “Be stranded here? In the scorching sun?” Joshua laughed.  “I’ll pass, my friend.”Caellach smirked.  “Finally, something we agree on.”--They had once been comrades-in-arms.  Perhaps even friends.  But that was a long time ago, before the Tiger Eye had existed, and the gambler accepted his responsibilities.
Relationships: Cethelreda | Caellach & Jhosua | Joshua
Kudos: 4





	1. Crimson Spilled on the White

Of all the things he despised about the desert, its appearance was the worst. Fine, little white grains, mocking those who had ever desired to see snow, to feel the cold rush to them. Not that he had felt it before, but Caellach knew it would have been preferable to all this fucking sand. It was just sand. There had only ever been fucking  _ sand.  _

Even the man, bruised and broken, squirming beneath him could hardly be seen under the clouds of dust. He needed to rectify that. 

“Take this, you bastard!” With a single blow, Caellach’s axe shattered the brigand, splitting him in half. But it _still_ wasn’t enough.

Bits and pieces flew into the sky. A red sea rained below, drenching the parched mercenary. Striking, slicing,  _ destroying _ \- and the former bandit was no more than assorted, messy remains on the sand.  _ That  _ was the only way Jehanna could look any different: when crimson spilled onto the white. Just like an esteemed court painter, Caellach had changed (no,  _ created _ ) the landscape, cementing his subject’s place in history. His blood was now the only reminder that the bandit had ever existed in this Godsforsaken place. 

_ He should have thanked me. _

The man behind Caellach waited a few moments before approaching him, and then handed him a ragged, sweat-stained cloth. “You look like you could use this.”

With a huff, Caellach grabbed it. "Thanks." 

“You know, I’m not sure all this,” the man gestured to the gruesome scene with a flippant flick of his wrist, “was worth all the effort.” 

Caellach didn’t say anything, choosing to wipe his forehead instead. 

“He was dead with the first swing of your axe.” 

"And?" Caellach snapped. 

Joshua put his arms up in defense. “Just an observation… nothing more, nothing less.” He looked again at what was once their foe. “That was the last of them, yeah?”

"Yeah." 

“They were rather persistent for some low-life thugs. We’ll have to let the commander know.”

“What? That they’re starting to grow some balls or that there’s just more of them?” 

Joshua shrugged. “All of the above.” He turned around and pointed, but Caellach wasn’t sure where- it all looked the fucking same. “The rest of the company has started to head out. We best catch up or we’ll be left behind.” 

“And we wouldn’t want that, huh?”

“Be stranded here? In the scorching sun?” Joshua laughed. “I’ll pass, my friend.”

Caellach smirked. “Finally, something we agree on.” 

________________________

He didn’t have many happy memories from childhood. Every damn day was a struggle back in the village. There was nothing-  _ they  _ had nothing. 

In Jehanna, there were only two professions with the potential of profit: mercenary work or banditry. (Of course, there were… other options. But they either made very little or took too much compared to what it gave in return). And so, the youth of Jehanna funneled into one of the two jobs, forced to sacrifice their lives for the sake of that bloody cycle of killing and taking. After all, blood earned its weight in gold, holding up the economy. No mother wanted to see her son turn to sin, but it was a necessary evil; the nation could not survive without one or the other. 

His mother had been a tailor, at least, in name. Her clients did not come for crafting or repairing; they came for other reasons, reasons she neglected to say. But she was skilled in what she did, and Caellach felt proud wearing her clothing, which was newer and more lasting than what the other village kids had. 

If he was well-behaved, his mother allowed him to watch her work. Her slender fingers would weave through silver and gold threads and thin fabric; smooth, practiced motions, like flowing water. They moved with such dexterity and grace- more mesmerizing than any dance Caellach had seen performed in the town square. Remarking on it later, he decided that was one of his pleasant memories. 

In his first, true battle, in which men dropped and never got back up, Caellach tried to emulate her calm, deft skill. But he had always been inclined to rash, hasty brutality- every time he tried to assist his mother, he snapped stitches and ripped the cloth. Still, the blood slipped through his fingers like crimson silk. 

Caellach smiled. 

In the end, he, too, could be an artist. 

________________________

In a field of vultures picking at the dreadful, forgotten past, there was only one other memory he didn’t try to kill. Books were few in their household, but the ones they did have, made up for the lack of variety. His favorite was a tome of legends, detailing the Five Heroes of Magvel- their strengths and deeds, eloquent words, and dangerous, fantastic journeys. 

Every night, when the angry sun retired and the cool, gentle moon returned from his slumber, Caellach and his sister would reach for the dusty volume, falling apart at the seams, damaged from the light, years, and frequent use. They told the tales to each other, trying to imitate the grandiose voices of the heroes, as the other listened in awe, carefully soaking up each and every word. No matter how many times Caellach heard them, he was still enamored. 

The tale the siblings read the most was that of the hero, Jehan. Starting as a lowly orphan, roaming the streets of the grand city of Salim, he trained in the sword, mastered the elements, and rose through the social ranks, using his strength and valiant actions to become the Unifier of the Desert, King of Jehanna. 

“Cael! Cael!” Delilah cried. “Read it again!”

He smiled, lightly turning the pages back. “Weighed down by sweat and the endless sand, Jehan collapsed. His mind, barely conscious, began to wander, desperately trying to escape the heat. Then suddenly-”

"This is the best part!"

“Suddenly, the air began to cool, surrounding Jehan in a swirling tempest. He startled awake, staring in wonder. His hands had released a cyclone of wind, shielding him from the sand and stagnant, hot air. In shock, he dropped his broken blade. The wind stopped in its course, circled around, and attacked the sword, disappearing entirely. The area was enveloped with a blinding light-”

"What next, what next?!?"

Caellach's eye twitched. "Delilah, I can't finish the story if you keep interrupting."

She flushed, sheepishly giggling, "Sorry, Cael!"

“Yeah, yeah… When the light had cleared,” he continued, “Jehan’s blade was no more. Its rusted, chipped, and cheap steel was replaced by a long, fine weapon- cold to touch and the most beautiful turquoise.” Caellach had never seen the sea, but he imagined that it looked like Jehan’s artifact. And he  _ knew _ it was far more breathtaking than the endless desert. “The warrior gingerly picked it up, tracing its intricate design and sharp edges. Jehan’s sword had transformed into the Ice Blade, Audhulma!”

No such thing happened in his first scrimmage. Caellach ran around blindly, recklessly, trying to hack all that he could. He couldn’t breath. But he couldn’t stop. Even though he was about to faint, seconds away from dropping because of the burning sun, he kept charging forward; he could never achieve his dreams if he didn’t prove himself- his mettle and determination- right here, right now. 

Covered with sweat, grime, and blood, he didn’t stop until he came across the ruins of a clay home. In its wreckage, laid a small body of a girl, bent at odd and unnatural angles. Perhaps that was his wind, his tempest of clarity... Delilah’s life had been sacrificed to the greater good: an income for her brother- _five_ silver pieces- and a continuation of the economic cycle. 

Caellach could only laugh. Bitter, wet streaks ran down his cheeks, washing away the blood and his misery. 

________________________

For as much as he read the _Book of Legends,_ Caellach had missed a crucial part. From Gado to Jehan, as strong and God-like as they were, eventually, they perished. Defeated by hamartia, their single, shared fatal flaw. They all fell to _hubris._ Great kings they may have been, but conquerors and peasants all belong to the dirt, in the end, they are the same. 


	2. Like Diamonds, Like Daggers

They walked (Joshua: sauntered, Caellach: charged) into the guild, half dazed from the sun and withdrawal of adrenaline. Following their steps with a discerning eye, was a fellow mercenary leaning against the wall. 

“I see you two are still in one piece,” Aias drawled, as if reciting a passage from an academic’s textbook. 

“Did you expect anything different?” Joshua smirked. “You know Lady Luck is on _my_ side.” From how often he mentioned her, he might as well have been sleeping with the dame. 

Aias raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, turning to the other mercenary. “Caellach.”

"Aias."

There wasn't much to say. 

A slight commotion rang throughout the hub’s halls, as men shuffled in and out of its doors- some wearing hardened faces, others with gleaming, eager eyes. Never both. All were of different shapes and sizes, different skills, and different origins. But all had loyalties to The Völsunga Corps, one way or another. 

“Where’s Uriah?” Caellach asked, itching to report in and be done with it. 

“Last I heard,” started Aias, “he was loitering around the merchants.”

Caellach glared at him menacingly- irritatedly- and then Aias added, “The spice merchants. Can’t miss them.” 

_Yeah, because they fucking stink._

Joshua smiled, as charmingly as possible, and tipped his well-worn, leather hat. “Much obliged, Aias.”

The man blinked blanky in response. “Joshua.” 

He walked away. 

If it had been up to him, Caellach wouldn’t have been here. Instead, he’d be working as a freelancer, not chained to any damn place, expected to _follow_ rules. As it currently stood, his reputation already brought him jobs. But, there was merit (minimal, but tangible) to working at an established guild. Coin was easier to come by, commodities easy to access. And of all the mercenary tropes plaguing the desert, The Völsunga Corps was one of the most respected. Most frequented. Not by any means was it honorable, but it was the chosen weapon of sly nobles, of wealthy merchants with pockets lined with jewels- glimmering, enticing. 

Caellach’s mouth drooled at the thought of it. 

He’d stick around. Long enough to rack up some favors from the nobility, long enough to gather valuable, expensive information and even pricier gold. And then- he couldn’t leave any faster. 

True to Aias’s word, Uriah was in the merchants’ hub, surrounded by foreign spices and perfumes, and in deep conversation with a small, shrewd looking man. The man scowled as Joshua and Caellach drew near. He said something quick, but effective, to a frowning Uriah, and disappeared within seconds. 

Uriah turned around, his face folding back into a composed slate- a bronze statue. The guild leader was a man no more than thirty-seven, not too old to feel the weakening of bones and of wits, but not too young to lack crucial, bloody experience. He was intimidating: tall and broad, tanned skin littered with scars, and dark crimson hair mirroring the remains of those he had felled. The man demanded respect and full attention. Seeing the two approach, he hid any lingering emotion and hints of the previous conversation behind a veil of stone. “Gentlemen.”

Caellach stood straighter, lifted his head higher. “The Kairan bandits have been routed.” 

“Good,” Uriah’s charcoal eyes narrowed in thought. “And their bodies?”

“Weapons,” Joshua interjected. “We collected those, along with the stolen items.” He didn’t mention the immense carnage and its heavy, rancid stench, but unconsciously sent a short, hesitant look to Caellach. 

_He’s afraid of me,_ Caellach noted. 

_Good._

Uriah scratched his face, raking its stubble. “Well, that will have to suffice for the identification. As long as the blue-bloods have their gold back, they’ll still pay the bounty.” 

_As long as they have their gold, and the rest of us don’t, they couldn’t give a shit._

How nice must that be. 

________________________

He didn’t trust Joshua. 

Objectively, there were many reasons not to. The lazy, carefree smile that oozed sleaze, the manner in which he swindled others- _mix in a few losses and they’ll_ never _know_ \- even that ugly black hat. All valid reasons. But not ones Aias subscribed to. 

No, he was suspicious of him in other ways: it was how Joshua fought. 

Aias trusted Joshua and Caellach about as far as he could throw them, but at least with Caellach, he knew where he’d land. He had the decency to be _obvious_ . So obvious, his deviousness was, that it was almost offensive. Still, he had the guts to be blatant about his selfish motivations, his upcoming actions- he didn’t try to hide them. And Aias supposed that was something to respect. The swing of his sword- _harsh,_ the weight of his axe- _heavy._

But Joshua? He wasn’t sure where Joshua would hit the ground. 

Whereas Caellach was clear, like glass, Joshua was smudged and muddied. In battle, he didn’t attack, he didn’t fight- he danced, he _glided_. When he swung his blade, all that came to Aias’s mind was _polished_ and _refined._ So unlike Caellach’s impulsive, terrifying strikes, all self-taught. 

And even unlike his own: practical and perfected through years of combat. (He had never been scratched. Not once). 

No, Joshua had been taught by someone _good_ . Someone leagues above the average mercenary. So the question was: _where_ did he learn swordplay?

Of course, off the battlefield, Joshua looses his intimidating edge. 

“See, here?” The myrmidon gestured to some unsuspecting tavern men, already lacking in intellect and their wits further reduced by cheap, bitter ale. 

The poor men never stood a chance. 

In a few swift, practiced motions, Joshua revealed a glint of a coin, and the men’s faces crumbled. 

Caellach snorted in his drink. “Give him an inch, and he’ll take a goddamn mile. He’ll get us chased out of here, soon enough.”

“You suppose we should call him over?”

“Eh, he’ll show up here eventually, trying to loosen our pockets too.”

Caellach did have a point. When no man was stupid enough to venture towards Joshua, he strode over to his fellow mercenaries with a sly, cocky smile. 

“Took ya’ long enough. What was so damned important that you couldn’t sit down with us?” asked Caellach. 

“Just testing my luck,” Joshua replied smoothly. “Would any of you, fine gentlemen, be up for a little wager?”

Caellach, along with the rest of the table, rolled his eyes. “We may be drunken bastards, but we ain’t fools.” 

Joshua smiled, saying nothing. He took the seat beside Aias. 

The rest of the mercenaries returned to their boisterous tales, spitting out raunchy details and mouthfuls of ale. Aias ignored them, even as they hit his face, turning his attention to Joshua. 

“So,” he said, “Where’d you learn those tricks?”

Joshua stirred his drink, feigning interest in it. “A master never reveals his secrets.”

“And you consider yourself a _master_?”

“Nah.” He took a sip of the ale, looking vaguely nostalgic. “Once you get cheated enough, you simply learn how to pick up a few things on the way.” 

_So he’s a quick study._

“Is that so.”

Nodding, Joshua glanced over to Caellach with a- well, Aias couldn’t say _what_ exactly it was- but with an _interesting_ expression. “I take it you’re not much of a gambler then, Aias.”

“No,” he responded coolly, “never got in the habit.”

Joshua frowned. “A shame.” 

His frown deepened as he watched Caellach’s wildy moving hands reach up, grasping the air- maybe something else. Curious, Aias turned around. 

“-and then, just you wait,” he said. His grin widened, showing off his teeth- sharp and almost animalistic. In the dim lights of the tavern, Caellach's canines shone the brightest, gleaming like diamonds (or perhaps a better comparison), like _daggers_. “I’ll be on that throne, surrounded by all that power and gold. And if the lot of you beg me enough, I’ll let you lick my boots.”

The men laughed. Some mockingly, some sincere, but none threatened. A few jokingly began to crawl onto their knees, serenading their new “ruler.”

Caellach’s grin only grew. 

“Pray tell,” a sharp voice cut in. “What do you intend to do as king? To guide your country and her people?”

The raucous blabber quickly died, and Aias sat up in his chair. 

Caellach glared. “What do you mean by that? Trying to knock down a man’s bonafide dream?”

“What _I_ mean is, what are your intentions? Why?”

“ _Why?”_ Caellach harshly echoed. “Simple. To prove every fucker who said I couldn’t do it wrong.” He slowly got out of his seat, towering above the rest. 

The men weren’t laughing now. 

But Joshua stood taller than Aias had ever seen him. Usually in light of Caellach’s ambitious desires, he’d laugh, egging him on. Not now. He was calmly… _serious_. Perhaps the alcohol had tampered with his defenses, showing the face behind the debauched mask. He had, after all, taken off his hat. “Well, then, what would you do with your power?”

“My power?” Caellach guffawed. 

“Don’t you think, as king, the position warrants some expected actions?”

“Do _you?_ ” he countered. 

The glint in Joshua’s eyes was as piercing as his sword. “I believe that a monarch should get to know the common folk- walk in their shoes for a spell. And then, they should do everything in their power to alleviate the people’s problems.”

The bar stared at him in silence. 

“... I don’t think I like this serious side of you, Joshua.” Caellach said, growling at the end. “You should get back to what you do best- scamming and slicing people. It suits _you_ better.” 

Joshua had nothing to say to that. 

Eventually, in a matter of minutes, the tensions swimming in the pub had been drowned in its drinks, and the terse battle of words was replaced by obnoxious, drunken laughter and the occasional slurred roar. 

Even Joshua, previously gallantly tall, shrunk back in his seat, smirking like a snake, and soaked himself with booze. He had sheathed his sword. He had become dull. But Aias noticed that his eyes did not. They remained sharp and vigilant, studying the area with wary caution. 

_Deadly._

Despite the relatively mirthful, loud atmosphere, Aias scrambled to put himself on guard. Already, he could feel Joshua calculating where exactly to slice him, the precise strikes cutting his flesh. It would feel startling, like a sudden burn, and he’d watch in awe. Like witnessing a ritual, sacred in its own way. Or maybe it was like a dance, performed by a handsome figure people from across Magvel hungered to see, giving up fortunes for. But regardless of the crowd, the dancer’s focus was on Aias, and he moved just for him. 

It was a dance that made Aias close his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caellach is an asshole, but like a FUN asshole. Not like Valter who is just creepy and ergh. Both highly interesting though.  
> Also, I promise that I love Joshua. The love is just complicated.


End file.
